


The Apartment

by binahlance



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DC Animated Universe, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016), Suicide Squad (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Gender Neutral, No Romance, Reader Insert, Second Person, Short, based off of a prompt from writing-prompt-s on tumblr, creepy neigbors, gender neutral reader, harley's suicide squad (comic) aesthetic, platonic, sketchy apartments, this is really more writing practice than an actual fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:47:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7409962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binahlance/pseuds/binahlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was what you got for signing the papers before you’d even set foot in the place, you mused as you stared down at the chalk outline on your kitchen floor. It was roughly the size and shape of a man, sprawled in an unnatural position. Okay, so there was a murder in the apartment. Big deal. You weren’t particularly superstitious -- it wasn’t like you expected a vengeful ghost to haunt you for the duration of your occupancy. You could work with this.</p><p>The stuff in the spare bedroom, however, had you worried.</p><p> </p><p>OR "Reader moves into Harley Quinn's old apartment, and Harley has left some rather interesting stuff lying around."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is based off of this prompt from writing-prompt-s on tumblr:  
> "You have moved into a house that used to belong to a supervillain- one who still hasn’t gotten all of their stuff moved out."  
> because I happened the see it while I was in the middle of reading Suicide Squad, and I thought it would be fun to use it to write something about my favorite DC lady.
> 
> This was originally just a short practice piece, but I decided to go ahead and post it because there's a serious lack of Harley/Reader stuff on this website.

You knew going into this that there had to be a reason that the rent on this place was so cheap. You’d just been hoping it was something annoying but ultimately harmless, like bad plumbing or a mouse problem. 

What you definitely hadn’t been expecting was to move into a supervillain’s lair. One that the villain hadn’t even fully moved out of, in fact.

This was what you got for signing the papers before you’d even set foot in the place, you mused as you stared down at the chalk outline on your kitchen floor. It was roughly the size and shape of a man, sprawled in an unnatural position. Okay, so there was a murder in the apartment. Big deal. You weren’t particularly superstitious -- it wasn’t like you expected a vengeful ghost to haunt you for the duration of your occupancy. You could work with this.

The stuff in the spare bedroom, however, had you worried.

There were half a dozen large cardboard boxes containing all kinds of weird stuff that you had a feeling would get you into trouble if someone found it in your possession. One of the boxes was entirely filled with what looked like the remnants of a project to plant homemade bombs inside a bunch of teddy bears. Another contained no less than eleven pairs of handcuffs, three straight jackets, and a whip.

Okay, so the person who lived here before you was definitely really into either murder or bondage. You didn’t bother to look into the other boxes. You didn’t want to know.

 

You’d been living in your new apartment for just over a month, and you thought you were adjusting pretty well to the very real possibility that you were living in a crime scene. You usually just left the back bedroom locked up, all of the weird paraphernalia inside safely out of sight, out of mind. You were even starting to grow fond of the chalk outline in the kitchen. You’d named it Frank.

And those extra locks you’d had installed on the doors and windows were just a safety precaution, as was the new alarm system. You definitely weren’t worried that the last tenant was going to return to reclaim their criminal hideout and eliminate any witnesses. Definitely not. 

You had started a cautious investigation though, just to see exactly how concerned you had reason to be. You’d asked around, but most of your neighbors weren’t the talkative type. 

The old woman down the hall assured you that the last person to live in your apartment was very quiet, never made any trouble. Then again, the poor lady was at least seventy, hard of hearing, and spent most of her time holed up watching soap operas. You doubted she would have noticed anything short of a bomb going off. 

The frat boys on the other side of you were only slightly more helpful. At least they provided a gender for your mystery villain.

“She was super hot.” One of them had gushed, “Like, a total babe.”

He couldn’t tell you anything about the babe’s lifestyle or possible illegal activities, just that she kept weird hours and would sometimes disappear for weeks at a time. His roommate joked that she might have been a vampire, which somehow didn’t make you feel better.

Selina in 4B just smiled cryptically when you asked, and the only comment she’d give about your apartment’s previous tenant was that “she had quite the sense of humor.” As she closed the door you thought you heard her muttering about calling somebody to “clean up the mess,” but you told yourself that it had nothing to do with you. She was probably talking about one of her cats. She sure did seem to have a lot of them, despite your building's no-pets policy. 

You triple-checked all the locks before going to bed that night.

 

In your third month in the apartment, you got a note from the previous tenant.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected when you’d found a plain manilla envelope in your mailbox with no address, just your name in bold, block letters. Your brain had quickly conjured up images of crime-drama ransom notes, with pasted-together words cut out from magazines and newspapers. And hadn’t you read about people sending bombs through the mail before? What about the one movie where there’d been poisonous gas in the letter, set up to spray in the recipient’s face when they opened it?

“Okay, calm down.” You muttered to yourself as you slowly let yourself into the apartment, closing the door behind you. “You’re just freaking yourself out. It’s probably not even from them.”

You still held the envelope at an arm’s length, and opened it from the wrong end. You know, just to be safe.

The only thing inside was a slightly wrinkled sheet of notebook paper, with a short message written on it in… a glittery pink gel pen?

Two sentences. Seven words.

“Sorry for the mess! See you soon!”

They’d drawn a little smiley face next to the message. It looked like the kind of note you’d expect to see passed between students in a middle school classroom. Definitely not a ransom note from a serial killer, although the “see you soon” part did strike you as vaguely threatening. You wondered if the smiley had been intended to make the letter seem weirdly friendly, or to up the creep factor. Either way, it worked.

You threw the note in the trash and made a mental note to call your real estate agent. Maybe it was time to look for lodging in a different part of town.

 

She doesn’t show up until a week after the letter arrived. 

“I’m here to pick up my stuff. Sorry to leave it takin’ up your space for so long.” She speaks in a lazy tone with a heavy (and almost definitely fake) accent, one hand on her hip.

You know you’re staring, but you can’t seem to keep your eyes from roving over her, trying to take it all in. Her skin is white -- not white as in pale, but the color of blank paper. Her hair is split right down the middle, half bright red and half a blue so dark that at first you thought it was black, and she’s wearing it in two space buns, which strikes you as oddly adorable. She’s dressed in a style that your brain labels “psychotic cheerleader,” in a pleated black miniskirt and a tight black crop top with a bubblegum pink varsity jacket thrown over it. She fits the part -- she’s even wearing hot pink lipstick and chewing bubblegum.

She pops a bubble and blinks expectantly, and you realize that you still haven’t responded to her greeting.

“I, uh, I don’t--”

“Oh, excuse me. Where are my manners?” She extends a small but strong hand, gripping yours in a firm shake. “I’m Harley. I used to live here.”

“I, um, know who you are.” You speak politely, wondering how exactly one was supposed to speak to a woman who was considered one of the most dangerous people in the world. “I thought you were…?”

“In prison? Yeah.” She grins, like she’s remembering a fun vacation. “Got out on good behavior. Can I come in?”

The way she says it, you can’t tell if she’s lying or not. But you figure that if she really wants to, she’ll come in with or without your permission, so you may as well go along with her. You step back, letting her into the living room.

“Oh, you’ve redecorated!” Her pink lips spread into a soft “O” as she takes in the simple decor you’d put up over the last couple of months. “I love it! The new security system especially. This place needed an upgrade.”

You aren’t sure how she knew about the alarm system -- it’s never on during the day, and the control panel is in the kitchen, out of her line of sight. You watch as her eyes scan the apartment, glimmering sharply, and you start to suspect that she is smarter than people gave her credit for. 

Harley Quinn. You moved into Harley Quinn’s apartment. 

You knew you should have gone for that nice little duplex in Central City instead.

Harley continues to give herself the grand tour of your home, and you continue to follow her around, sizing her up. She’s not particularly big, but one look at her muscular arms and the gymnast-like thighs peeking out from under her skirt are enough to convince you that you’d lose in any fair fight. That, and her reputation. Anyone who could go toe-to-toe with Batman himself would definitely have no problem beating little old you into a bloody pulp, if they wanted to. She’s walking around the place like a detective searching for clues, which you realize is exactly what she’s doing. Studying your surroundings, using them to get a good idea of who you are and, you assume, how she should handle you.

She’s in your kitchen now, examining your (small) coffee maker and the single cup in the sink. “So you live alone, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.” You figure there’s no point in lying to her. You doubt that your having a roommate would change anything.

“Single, right? Me too.” She grins and it’s genuinely warm and friendly and throws you off a little. “I’m taking some time for myself. Haven’t had the best luck with relationships lately.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.” You find yourself agreeing with her, making small talk with one of Gotham’s most wanted, and it feels surreal. “Tough breakup?”

“The worst.” She makes a face, scrunching up her nose in a way that reminds you of a kitten. She scuffs the toe of one shoe on the chalk lines in the floor. “I see the cops never did clean up their mess. Sorry ‘bout that -- my fault.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m kind of used to it.” You shrug. “I’ve been calling him Frank.”

She laughs at that, eyes sparkling. “I like it.” 

And the sharp, analytical expression is back, like she’s a doctor and you’re her patient. “You’re okay.” 

You aren’t sure whether she’s complimenting you, or simply thinking out loud. 

You follow her back to the spare bedroom, which is closed and locked, as you always keep it. She throws the door open, and you expect her to make a joke, but instead she nods with a serious expression. “You didn’t mess with anything. That was smart. A lot of this stuff ain’t exactly user friendly.”

You watch as she paws through the boxes, her lips moving silently as if she’s taking a mental inventory. She occasionally pauses to examine an object or exclaim, “So that’s where this went!” before going back to her search. Finally, when she seems satisfied, she turns to face you.

“D’you think you could help me move this stuff outta here? Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. I’ve got a friend who can loan me his van. Does Saturday work for you?”

“I, um--”

“C’mon, I know you wanna get rid of this stuff.” She kicks the nearest box, which is thankfully not the one full of unstable explosives. “I’ll even buy you lunch afterwards, as a thank-you for not throwing it out or turning it over to GCPD. I know this great cafe downtown.” She winks, and you wonder if she’s flirting with you or is just always like this. 

“Uh, sure. Saturday is my day off, anyway.” You shrug. Probably best to go along with her. You suspect that you’re currently on her good side, and you decide to do everything you can to keep it that way. Call it common sense. 

“Great!” She’s already making her way towards the front of the apartment, swinging a comically oversized hammer that she’d dug out of one of the boxes. She opens the front door, then turns to grin at you over her shoulder. “See you then!”

And just like that, she’s gone.

 

When Selina comes by to check on you that night, she seems even more smug than usual. She nudges you with her elbow, one side of her mouth quirking up in a half-smirk. “You look kinda shell-shocked, hun. Everything okay?”

“What?” You blink, dazed. “Oh. Yeah, I’m fine, I just…” You sigh. “I think I have a date with a supervillain.”


	2. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She never did ask you for a second date. Actually, she never even clarified that your first date really was a date.. You kind of assumed that after that day you’d never see her again. Her note arrived in the mail exactly one week later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't originally planning for this story to be anything more than a one shot, but someone on tumblr asked for a part two, so here it is!

You stand in front of your bedroom mirror, nervously studying your reflection. You glance down at the note in your hand, written in a now-familiar handwriting with glittery pink ink. (You don’t know what Harley has against phones, but all communication from her comes in the form of these unmarked notes dropped in your mailbox.) The message is simple -- “See you at 7:00! Wear something nice! xoxo” -- but not especially helpful. How nice is “nice”? Does she mean black tie? Or just dressy-casual? Maybe something in-between?

You can’’t believe this. You can’t believe that you’re stressing over outfit choices for a second date with one of Gotham’s most wanted criminals. You can’t believe the little fluttery feeling in your tummy whenever you think about said wanted criminal. 

As if living in her old hideout wasn’t enough. Now you’re falling for her, too.

Your “first date” was extremely informal. She showed up at your apartment on a Saturday morning in sweatpants and a tank top, a borrowed white van parked out front. You’d helped her move the “delicate cargo” from the back room of your apartment into the van, and then you found yourself sitting next to her up front as she chattered away all through the drive. As you were moving the boxes into her new home -- an apartment slightly larger than yours, but in a much less savory part of town -- she’d gotten all serious out of nowhere.

“Now, if anyone ever gives you any trouble, you come straight here, ‘kay?” She stood with her hands on her hips, the expression on her face almost parental. “There’s a place for you on the couch if you ever need it. Or in the bed, if you don’t mind sharing.” She’d winked, and the solemn mood had dissolved, just like that. But you appreciated the sentiment. It’s strangely comforting, knowing that she has your back.

After you finished moving her stuff into her new place, she’d taken you out for lunch at her favorite cafe. You’d chatted over coffee and sandwiches, and you’d been thrown by how normal and easy it all felt.

She never did ask you for a second date. Actually, she never even clarified that your first date really was a date.. You kind of assumed that after that day you’d never see her again. Her note arrived in the mail exactly one week later.

And here you are, dressed in an outfit that you hope is classy enough for a sophisticated restaurant, but casual enough for something more laid back. It’s already 7:02, so you figure that it will have to be good enough. 

You’ve barely made it into the living room before a knock sounds on the front door. You throw it open and immediately forget how to breathe, because she looks amazing. 

Harley is standing on your doorstep, wearing one of those vintage-cut dresses that looks like something from a 1950s dinner party, and it’s probably the most flattering outfit you’ve ever seen, on anybody. The dress is black, with little red polka dots that are somehow a perfect match for the red half of her hair. She’s wearing red pumps and carrying a little black purse, and she has on a shade of deep red lipstick that certainly isn’t doing you any favors as you desperately try not to think about what it would be like to kiss her.

“Hey!” She sweeps into your apartment and throws her arms around you in an enthusiastic hug. “You look great!”

“I, um,” You swallow, willing yourself to get it together as you return her hug. “Thanks. You too. Like, you look really good. Wow.”

She giggles as she releases the hug, grabbing your hand instead. “Ready to go, cutie?” 

You nod and follow her outside. She didn’t bring the van tonight -- instead, a very impressive motorcycle is parked on the curb in front of your building. You freeze. “We’re going on that?”

“Yep.” She skips over to the bike, picking up the two helmets resting on the seat. She holds one out to you, a wide grin on her face. “Trust me, it’s gonna be fun!”

 

“‘It’ll be fun,’ she said.” You roll your eyes, only to immediately flinch at the sound of bullets ricocheting off of Harley’s bike, which you are both currently huddled behind.

“It was fun! At least, at first.” Harley’s expression is sheepish. “The restaurant was nice.”

“Yeah, it was.” You laugh. “At least until that waiter turned out to be a hired thug and started a fist fight right in the middle of our main course. You should have seen his face when you got him in a choke hold!”

Harley snorts. “Wasn’t exactly how I planned on impressing my date, but I’ll take it.”

“Too bad he brought backup. That eggplant parmesan smelled amazing.” You frown. “Do we know who exactly is trying to kill you?”

Harley shrugs. “Could be my ex-boyfriend, could be the US government, could even be one of my, uh, ‘prison buddies.’ Who knows?” 

“I had no idea you were so popular.” 

It’s Harley’s turn to roll her eyes. “Yeah, I’m just irresistible.” Her expression suddenly turns solemn. “Hey, have you ever hotwired a car before?”

“Uh, no?” Your eyes narrow.. “Why do you ask?”  
“Well, you know what they say.” She grabs your hand, a wild laugh flying from her lips. “There’s a first time for everything! Get ready to run.”

 

“That was…” You leaned against your front door, breathing heavily. “That was something.”

“Yeah.” Harley picks at the fabric of her dress, which is slightly singed. “Sorry about that. Getting you almost-killed was so not the plan for tonight.”

“Don’t be.” You grin. “I had fun.”

“So did I.” She looks up at you with a shiteating grin, and you both lose it. You’re both doubled over, leaning on each other, laughing in an adrenaline-fueled hysteria. You almost fall over but she catches you, holding you steady as you both gasp, trying to calm down.

“You’re sure that none of them followed us here?” You’re aware that a bit of vulnerability has slipped into your voice, but you can’t help it. As much as you try to laugh it off, those guys who came after the two of you tonight scare you. You don’t want to think about what would happen if one of them followed you home.

“I’m sure.” A dark look crosses Harley’s face, one you’ve never seen before, and you know she means business. “I’ll take care of it.”

You nod slowly, deciding not to press the matter. The less you know about what she’s about to do, the better. “Let’s stay in next time, okay? I’ll rent some movies, order a pizza. Or we could cook something here, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Next time?” She looks genuinely surprised. “I kinda thought you’d never want to see me again. I almost got you blown up tonight. Twice.”

“Of course I want to see you again.” You lean back against the door, still breathless and giggly from all the excitement. “This is the most interesting date I’ve ever been on. The last person I was with took me bowling for our second date. This was way more exciting.”

She laughs at that. “And people say I’m the crazy one.” But she looks touched, and her expression softens as she looks up at you. “You goin’ in now?”

You nod. “I need a shower.” To prove your point, you gesture down to your clothes, which are completely covered in grime and debris. 

She nods, a soft, fond little smile on her face. “I’ll call you, okay?”

You’re about to respond, but she cuts you off by grabbing your shoulders and pulling you in for a kiss, and your brain seems to cease functioning. All you can do is pull her closer, lips meshed together under the dim light of your apartment building’s hallway.

You jump when you feel your back hit your front door, and she pulls away, breathless. 

“Sorry.” She says it, but you can tell by the smirk on her face that she isn’t sorry, at all. “Guess I got a little carried away.” She pecks you on the cheek, just for good measure, and then steps back. “See you soon?”

“Definitely.” You have a feeling you look like an idiot, smiling and cupping your cheek where she’d kissed you, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. “Be careful getting home, alright?”

“I will.” She waves at the car the two of you had “borrowed” from your attackers, which is still parked in front of your building. “I still gotta ditch this rustbucket before someone comes looking for it. I’ll see you around.” She gives you a cheerful little wave, and then she’s gone.

You let yourself into your apartment, your steps slow as exhaustion suddenly overtakes you. You trudge into the bathroom, a hot shower the only thing on your mind.

When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you grin, mouth stained deep red with her lipstick.


End file.
